wink and you'll miss it
i love /neu how this is very general very basic facts and characterful and then Top 3 Places to Kiss
Chapter 01: costco loading zone
Chapter 02: boob
Chapter 03: backseat of friend's car when the driver's not looking
There aren't enough people in NLA, human - here meaning, the type of being around which the current economy and curtailed supplychain is centered - or otherwise, to merit the existence of a gigantic warehouse store plopped directly under the Ma-non ship, joining the industrial and residential districts via a ferocious display of interstellar excess.
But it exists, because this is NLA we're talking about, the everlasting bourgeoisie California of the skies.
Within, racks upon racks and pallets upon pallets of gourmet suid steaks (no mere Tough Humpsteak would do for the discerning and disassociated-from-notions-of-credit-rating shopper), bulk jars of Lava Chestnuts both shelled and unshelled (rather, pitted and unpitted?), Caecus Livers to feed a famine, precut melon trays of varying tastefulness, premade cabbage rolls reinforced with Hard Skin and filled with all seven-eight flavors of Keppo Carrot, Autiga Powder face masks and Fillal Filth exfoliants, and on, and on, and on...
As well, a range of sizes of vending machines for purchase and restock, gardening kits themed upon each of the vastly different discovered regions of Mira, camping and recreational gear for the most casual of enthusiasts, and a host of boutique kitchen and home appliances sure to be much more useful than anything L's share of intergalactic genius had ever rendered.
But oh, ci loves this store, don't mistake.
"After all, we are simply buying the whole sale!"
Seren, inspecting and debating the virtues of a colossal jar of cookies-and-cream-flavored protein powder (could they use it? would they puke?), nods distractedly. "Yeah! Now whey the flip is what..."
When they finally get outside, two carts deep in deviled eggs and the components of enough true angel shots to make Frye start praying, Seren finally remembers Sirius.
"You didn't bring G'baleir, did you?"
"Nooo," demurrs L. "We hopped and skipped the stone's throw." Which is a factually untrue statement about the relative position of the administrative district, but whatever. As if L's incessant, incorrigible, irrepressible wanderlust doesn't make Seren's own star-shaped robo-heart skip.
Well, and so what to do with this all? They can't return it - in Seren's mind this gesture would be more about the viability of the perishable items than about the monetary difference, though the poor store employees can think what they like about free-wheeling high-dealing holy-rolling BLADEs.
Maybe they can just...find the next Nopon that waddles by and gift it to them, spontaneously?
To speak of spontaneity, then, at Seren's direction for L to pick what ci wants to take and leave the rest with a thoughtfully scribbled sign, L selects only Seren themself, and kisses their cheek messily to pacify as ci carries them away, away, away.
Mimi Cross-Mi Mirabilis, effortless fashionista and determined bulwark of the Miran curatorial scene. There's nothing she wouldn't do for another holofigure (even if of a Cantor wearing lingerie) or another piece of far-out feathered gear.
There's something to be said about her original choice of armor - in fact, it's already been said. Then, too, the Supreme Uniform is quite distinguished and buttoned-up. Always, she coordinates her chest and stems with her hearing aids, her beloved "ears". Talk about stunning and stunting in a Nopon-made miniskirt!
Her top wear is really what shines, though. Somehow she makes heavy, deified Wrothian sleeves complete with the claws look dainty and effervescent, paired with a light but substantial boundless torso.
Yeah, Yelv likes her in it. Who wouldn't?
(Anybody who would had better think again, because Mimi's his. And yes, he recognizes how that sounds. He accepts it. He has no choice.)
Nothing Mi loves more than a fashion show. Yelv's clapping and cheering is always completely genuine (hey, he's bustin' his butt here, you better believe him and all the forehead-burning he's got going on), but it's got an ulterior motive too.
Aw, hell, it's too skeevy, too handsy, to say that he likes watching Mi take it off - no, no, no! He doesn't even need her disapproving glare haunting him to know that that stuff's for the birds.
Imagine being a guy like Yelv in a situation like this. You're plodding along, blowing off your steam at Eleonora 'cause she just won't quit, nosybody, and then she thinks it's a funny joke to hand you another nosybody to do half her dirty work crap for her. You can't escape the know-it-all women who always have to have one over on you.
But then, Mimi's different. She's willing to learn - obsessed with it. She's frustrated with his shortcomings, but she actually shows it, instead of smiling over the winces and the nods.
Awkward as it is, Yelv just likes to have his arms full of Mimi; to have his heart full of Mimi. And maybe Seren's got him jacked on the idea of a mim as a viable vessel for a soul, but to be able to feel that much, even he usually feels like he never had a heart or a soul to begin with, without Eddie, or whoever really was his pard...
Mi's heart competes for her brain as Yelv's favorite thing about her. Her passion, her compassion, and even her temper (especially her temper), all so powerfully beautiful and beautifully powerful.
Maybe he's just making up elaborate excuses to wanna kiss her right on the boob. Maybe not. Who's to say?
"So. Since when is Phasma licensed to drive a car, and not just a Skell?"
As the only one present who's ever actually driven a car, at least as far as Earth was concerned, Al feels a responsibility to the state of the motordom to defend vehicular transport's honor. It's not the same as a Skell. Not even close.
(For one thing, the hood's a lot further away from the driver. The core, one might say.)
Phasma, responsibly, doesn't turn around as they answer. "I thought it would be a good skill to have, so once I got my Skell license, I applied for a learner's permit as well."
Useless type of paperwork, considering that there were no children on Mira and never would be. Not even the Zaruboggans lasted very long.
From the passenger seat, Neil comments, "I'm certainly glad. It's much more convenient than trying to co-ordinate group travel in Skells. This way we all get to see each other! At least, you get to see me."
Al nods, for the benefit of the rearview mirror. "Looking good, Neil."
Seer's silent question is why Al isn't driving, and why xe can't grab his hand over the shifter, or whatever else, as appropriate. Totally unfair! Doesn't anybody love him enough to let him do that?! So much for universal destined partners... But what Phasma wants to do, it sets its mind to, so here they all are.
In actuality, they're moving quite slowly, cruising down Melville Street with no particular destination in mind. Phasma is duly concentrated on pedestrians, and Neil on people-watching, so they're keeping themselves well occupied.
Alois Bernholt is a bona-fide born good-faith actor. Seer Torna? Not so much.
Xe's obviously going to seize upon the serendipitous moment and yank Al down by the plackets on his jacket (of course Al isn't wearing his seatbelt) to bring the hero(es) of NLA down below the horizon of the tinted windows for a (somewhat oddly noisy) smackaroo, or two, or three.
Maybe Seer regrets it because of the very fact that Al would indeed call it a smackaroo, but playing this classic, classless trick on Phasma is just too good of a chance to pass up.
You won't find it on any starchart. You won't recognize it when it rumbles toward you with the silent ghostly choir of a thousand bygone electric cars. But you will find Neil thoughtlessly turning around to make of Al a query about the cultural significance of automobiles, and swiftly uttering an inelegant "Ah." before turning their gaze roadward again.
And what of Phasma? Well...he's too busy being locked the clock in.